So Help Me God
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Houses of the Holy tag: It's hard to believe in God when you're trapped under your car in a dark, cold night.


**So Help Me God**  
K Hanna Korossy

Cold. It was cold. So cold, he could barely think about anything beyond that. Except…

Danger. Not right. On his side, against something hard, and the pressure…

Dean Winchester woke with a gasp, hands shooting out to orient himself. His right arm responded, smacking against something cool and smooth, but his left was, was caught under… What?

Oh. This would probably work better if he could see.

Dean cracked his eyes open, expecting a flood of stimulus, but seeing only…nothing. He started to push up, real fear tying icy knots in his belly.

That was when the pain kicked in.

"Son of a—"

The first warmth he felt, and it was fire up his leg, through his body, threatening to explode the top of his head off. The cold had dampened it before, but it was coming out to play now. Dean fought it down, hands knotting in whatever he could reach, trying to pull himself away from the sheer panic of it. But still, trapped, held like a bug on a pin? Why wasn't Sam—?

Oh, God.

Dean jolted up. "Sam!" He tried even harder to free himself, discovered that his left arm was trapped by his body weight underneath him, but any movement felt like it was tearing his leg off. "Sammy!" he yelled even louder, still trying, hands flailing wildly, searching.

Nothing. No Sam, no escape, nothing.

Dean swallowed a sob.

He ruthlessly quashed the pity party a second later. No, he wasn't going to let this get to him. Panicking meant you'd already lost; Dean could practically hear his father's words. No. He had to figure this out, get out of there, and save Sam. His little brother needed him.

Okay. His fingers spasmed and released. Okay, he could do this. He had to. Dean wasn't a quitter. So…inventory. Where was he, what was his status, what did he have, what did he need?

No sounds but distant rustling. The smells were…confusing. Familiar but overlaid with burning and earth and pine. Where was he?

Feeling with shaky hands, Dean touched smooth vinyl, a round pressure against his chest, and…broken glass under his head? The car?

Swearing as he tamped down more rational fears, Dean opened his eyes again to blackness and realized he was nose-to-dirt. He made the effort to turn his head, fighting gravity, and saw…

Cracks. Spiderweb lines of white, and beyond them, more darkness. Turning further, a darker outline came into view, a frame around a thousand tiny lights. Stars. Outside.

Accident. Car accident. The car on its side, trapping him. And no enormous, gigantic shadow between him and the stars.

"Sam," Dean groaned again, hearing finally how hoarse and weak his voice really was. Trying to pull in air to yell louder just pressed his chest bruisingly against what he now realized was the steering wheel. Still, it came out with a little more volume this time. "Sam!"

Dean held his breath until his lungs burned, but there was no response, not even a stir of movement.

He squeezed his eyes shut—not like they were doing him a lot of good, anyway—and tried to think. Okay, possibilities. Sam was there somewhere, hurt: in the back where Dean couldn't see or thrown outside, although the windshield and passenger-side windows were intact and Sam's door was shut. Or he could have gone for help, unable to free or rouse Dean. Left him trapped there, and Dean's chest tightened even without the pressure of the steering wheel. God help him when Sam leaving him was the _good _option.

"Sammy," he whispered, longing and fear driving the one word nearly into tears. There was no one here to hear, anyway.

Except, something moved outside, getting closer.

Dean froze. He realized suddenly he should have checked for weapons before. The knife in his boot was too hard to reach, the piece in the glove compartment too far. His favorite knife was in the back; he didn't usually need to be armed while driving. Dean reached his free hand around to sift through the broken glass under him, and found a shard to clutch, slicing his fingers in the process and not caring. Thank God for old cars and no safety glass.

Footsteps, close now, and Dean faltered. Call for help or play dead? His mind felt slow, sluggish with cold and pain and the distraction of not knowing where Sam was, if he was okay. "Sam," he breathed, the sound tiny.

And soon answered. "Dean?"

He actually gasped at the voice he'd been dying to hear.

"Dean?" It came again, just as a silhouette he'd have known anywhere appeared above him in the passenger side window.

"Sam." It was husky and low, but he knew Sam would hear.

"Hold on, man." Sam disappeared from the window, and Dean immediately missed him.

A handful of seconds later, Dean was startled by a voice right by his ear. "Hey. You all right?"

"Just trapped," he grunted with relief. The injuries could wait as long as he wasn't bleeding out, and he didn't think he was.

There had to be barely any space between his side of the car and the ground, but somehow Sam worked a hand in to brush the top of his head. The touch was a ridiculous relief, and Dean felt himself relax with a sigh.

"You're wedged in here pretty tight, so I went for help. They're on their way—just hang on a little longer, okay?"

Dean nodded tightly. "Yeah. Yeah, okay." He cleared his throat. "You all right?"

"Hit my head," came the rueful response. "I'm okay—just a headache."

"Good." Dean sank back against the ground and closed his eyes. The cold didn't seem as bad anymore, his leg no longer shrieking. He was just tired.

"Don't go to sleep, Dean. It's not safe."

"Whatever," he mumbled. Sam was all right; he wasn't worried now, and there didn't seem anything to stay up for.

Sam sighed behind him, and then there was the soft slurry of movement. Dean let himself drift, until the awareness of movement and presence above him softly intruded into his awareness.

He hadn't even heard Sam open the door, but his brother was sliding down inside to him. Sam perched against the floorboard divider and the wheel, a scant foot from Dean, who watched his arrival with half-open eyes. "You doing okay?" his brother asked him, reaching out to encircle Dean's wrist to check his pulse, gently taking the shard from his hand, then examining his head.

"Peachy," Dean whispered. He blinked slowly. "Sorry."

"For what?" Sam asked. One hand had slid carefully under Dean's head, lifting it out of the glass and slipping some wadded material under to cushion it.

Dean breathed out long and low. "Accident. Can't remember what happened but…shoulda been more careful."

"It wasn't your fault—it was a deer," Sam said, his voice warm and soft like when he talked to victims. It was a skill Dean had never quite developed, at least, not when he didn't mean it.

"Car…look bad?" Dean continued. His chest ached from pain other than physical when Sam rested a hand on it.

"Your baby?" There was a smile in your brother's voice. "Dude, you're trapped inside a wreck on a mountain road at night, and you're worried about how the car's doing?"

"Well, yeah," he answered, as if it were obvious. Which it kinda was.

"The car's fine, Dean. A little dented from the rollover, but you missed the deer, nothing's bashed in. Not like when…"

He didn't have to say when it wasn't like. Dean gave a tiny nod. "Seriously. You're not just…making me feel better because I'm dying or something?"

Sam leaned over him, close enough for Dean to smell his shampoo and feel the warmth of his breath. For no reason Dean could put his finger on, Sam suddenly reminded him of their mom. "Dean, you're not dying. You're a little beat up, but they're gonna fix you. Just hang in there, man, okay? Help's on the way." His hand moved to Dean's white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, chafing lightly.

Dean swallowed, then dragged out an unsteady laugh. "Last car accident I saw…didn't turn out so well."

Long fingers tightened on his. "The guy who was impaled? He had that one coming, Dean, you said so yourself."

"Yeah, well…" He forced his eyes open, but saw only the dark outline of his brother's head and a glint of light off his eyes. "Maybe God's trying to tell me something, too, Sammy."

"Drive slower?" At Dean's grimace, Sam's voice softened. "I thought you didn't believe in God."

"Well, it's not like He's done a lot for me," Dean answered tightly. He gritted his teeth against a wave of pain up his leg, his head feeling ready to pop. "When even Good is out to get you, man…"

Sam adjusted his frame inside the small space, and reached down to cradle the back of Dean's skull. Just protecting him from the glass, Dean told himself. "How do you know?" Sam asked. "Dean, you don't know how much worse things could have—"

Dean's barked laugh cut him off. "Worse? Worse than Mom and Dad dead because of a demon? Worse than you seeing Jess burn up on the ceiling? Worse than…no white picket fence and law career and 2.5 kids for you, Sam? Almost losing you every friggin' week…" His throat choked up and, damn it all, it was _not _because he was upset. "Tell me how it could've been worse than that, Sam. How _God _was looking after us. Huh? Tell me that." He was winded after the tirade, and sagged back, gasping.

Sam laid a warm hand on his chest, easing his breathing. "We're alive," he said softly. "And we're together. I could've lost you in Nebraska, or I could have died from that demon virus. Dean, we could both be dead, or worse, just from tonight." He worked gently to unclasp Dean's grip from the steering wheel, rubbing his fingers, working his own beneath them. "All those close calls, don't you think_someone's_ watching out for us?"

It hurt to think, and Sam's gentle answers were sawing the support out from under Dean. He didn't want to tear down Sam's faith; really, he didn't. If Sam needed that, Dean was glad he had it. But he was so…tired. Trapped in more ways than one. "Then our guardian angel sucks, Sam," he said bitterly. "We maxed out about ten insurance cards last year. Tell me that's lucky."

Sam's thumb was insistently pressing, sliding over Dean's palm, distracting him. "Tell me you wouldn't have gladly put up with all that instead of me actually dying one of those times."

Dean tried to glare at him in the darkness. "What kinda sick question s'at, dude?"

"I'm just saying, we keep coming up against stuff we shouldn't've been able to walk away from, and we're still here. Dean, we've fought a hardcore demon and lived to tell about it. That should count for something. It has to."

Dean swallowed. "Do you believe that?" Because, God, the thought was so tempting.

Sam nodded, compassion softening his words. "Yeah. Yeah, man, I do. We're not alone in this, I swear."

The agony of his leg and head was getting harder to ignore. Dean tried fruitlessly to find a comfortable position, finally letting his eyes fall shut and just concentrating on Sam's touch. Almost feverish hot, it promised the existance of something more than just cold and pain. "I wanna believe that, Sam," he whispered wearily. "I do."

"I know." Sam's voice was a breath, a reminder of life. His fingers were warmed Dean's temple, drawing out some of the pain. "It'll be okay, you'll see." He pulled away.

"See what?"

No answer. Only the soothing heat lingered.

Dean's eyes struggled open, panic rising in him. Threatening to choke him when he found the space above him empty, only stars looking down on him. His hand grasped at nothing.

Dean struggled to push up, to see where he could have gone. "Sammy!" he called, voice breaking. No. No way had he dreamed that. Sam had to be safe, he— Dean lurched up, crying out. "_Sam!_"

Then, distantly, a yell back. "Dean! Hang on, I'm coming."

There was no way he could have gotten that far that fast. Dean tried to wrench free again, only to find his vision greying, his body slumping without his permission, a grating groan yanked from him.

"Dean!" Sam's face bobbed into sight, pale in the starlight, blood a black ribbon down his temple.

He hadn't had a mark on him before. Dean was sure he remembered that much.

"Hey, Dean. Talk to me, man. Y'all right?" The passenger side door was opening, or rather, being wrenched open. Metal protested, but Sam was nothing if not stubborn, and warped steel gave by inches. It finally stuck halfway, then the car rocked gently as Sam heaved himself up into the gap.

Dean wondered for a moment how he'd climbed in the first time, but his leg was throbbing with every shiver of the car, and Dean stopped thinking about anything else. He moaned before he could stop himself.

"Sorry," Sam whispered. "Sorry." This time he climbed down gingerly, propping himself against seat and dash and steering wheel to keep from tumbling down onto Dean. He finally managed to make it down, hovering over Dean, big hands blotting out the starlight as they sought for where to touch, how to help.

"Where'd you go?" Dean whispered raggedly, staring at the features he could make out now.

Sam's eyes kept darting back to his face in concern. "I went for help—no reception out here. Sorry, you were out. I thought I'd get back before—"

"No," Dean was shaking his head, "just now."

"I was getting help," Sam patiently repeated, his hand curling around the back of Dean's neck, but his touch was cold. Dean shivered, and Sam started to pull back.

"No. Stay," Dean said hoarsely, grabbing after him. His empty hand closed on the flannel comfort of his brother's shirt. "Don't you go away again, just…"

"I'm not going anywhere," Sam said, and at least his voice was warm, if a little tight with pain. Dean didn't remember that from before, either. "I found an emergency phone—help's on the way. I'm staying now."

Dean wasn't sure what was going on anymore, and if he unclenched his teeth, he might just break down. He leaned back by degrees into Sam's grip instead, held on tight to Sam in case he decided to disappear again, and listened to them breathing. Alive.

"Where does it hurt?" Sam asked softly as he checked pulse, then felt up Dean's ribs with such a light touch that Dean couldn't muster much irritation.

"Left side," he grated. "You name it."

Cold but gentle hands trailed over his limbs, up his arm to his neck. Dean sucked in his breath a few times as Sam found injuries, but besides his leg and his head, it didn't feel too bad. The earlier warmth still suffused him, dampening the shivers of pain.

"Doesn't look like anything's broken, you're just wedged in there pretty tight. Pressure's gotta be fun." Sam kneaded his thigh, easing a cramp Dean hadn't even realized had been forming. "Not getting claustrophobic on me, man, are you?"

Not with Sam there right next to him. Dean shook his head, grunting, "'S okay."

His brother tucked his free hand close to his body and bundled a blanket from God knows where around him. "You're gonna be fine."

Dean snorted softly at the platitude, but it was impossible to doubt Sam's belief. It always had been, whether it was in school and his normal life, the importance of the job, God being on their side, or his ability to save Dean. He wondered sometimes why Sam had such trouble putting faith in the reverse.

"I'm here," Sam was murmuring as he finally settled in opposite Dean, and _that_ was a promise Dean paid attention to. His thoughts were fragmenting, his senses screwed up. He was pretty sure that hadn't been Sam there before, but he couldn't figure out who or what it had been and how he hadn't known.

"Sammy—"

"I'm here," Sam repeated, rubbing a hand up and down his arm, across the back of his neck. "Take it easy, try to relax," he coaxed, and it was hard not to obey even if Sam was being all touchy-feely about it. The repetitive motion was a distraction from pain, and the reassurance Dean wasn't alone eased the fear inside. Sometimes, just in the privacy of his head, he had to admit he didn't mind so much that at least someone in the family took after Mom.

Sam shifted closer, careful not to rest any weight on him, and started humming. Dean's mouth twisted when he recognized the tuneless melody at an attempt at Metallica's "Master of Puppets," but it also lodged a lump in his throat. This Sam had to be the real deal. No one else could mangle a good song that impressively.

Dean pulled in a shallow breath, turning his head into Sam's grip on his neck. "You weren't here before, were you."

"What—"

"Talking about God? Ring any bells?"

"Dean." Sam's voice had gone shaky. "Did you see…?"

"The Angel of Death?" Dean couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. "Don' think so. Not that one, an'way."

"Dean?"

"Shuddup, Sammy, wanna sleep." He felt warmer now, almost cozy.

"Dean," Sam squeezed his shoulder, and it was like before, with not-Sam, just without that weird heat. Dean still preferred the real thing. "Dean, try to—"

He never did hear what he should try to do, drifting off first.

00000

Dean stood at the threshold, staring inside.

Churches were places of business for them: sources of holy water, information, occasionally help or sanctuary, although they rarely had time to seek either even when needed. Sam had mentioned once that he'd started going to church while at school, but he hadn't been since his return to the road, at least not that Dean was aware of. Then again, he hadn't realized Sam prayed, either, so who knew? He hadn't asked.

He himself had never bothered with church. Dean had inherited John Winchester's disdain for a God who, if not responsible for their family tragedy, hadn't stopped it. It wasn't quite unbelief, because there was power in those Christian rites, nor could Dean believe his mom had been that wrong in her faith. Besides, he'd met Good, too. He just wasn't always sure they were on his side, and if they weren't, well, where did that leave him?

A man without allies didn't last long, though. Sam had been right, he was just one person. And he wanted badly to believe something else was looking after Sam with more than just hunger and destruction in its gaze. There had to be Someone to pray to when Dean had nothing else left.

Besides, he hadn't been alone in that car. Dean hadn't told Sam, although a few oblique questions had revealed Sam didn't disagree with what not-Sam had said. And if it'd been right about all those times Dean had almost lost his little brother…

"You wanna go in?"

The soft question from behind him made Dean start. Speak of the devil, and he almost smiled at the joke. Then stood and stared another moment.

It was quiet inside. Beautiful and peaceful, a place of rest.

He wasn't ready to give up his burden just yet, though.

Dean shook his head, turning to give Sam a rueful grin. "Maybe later. Right now, I wanna go check on my car." He limped down the steps, Sam trailing behind.

"Dude, the mechanic's gonna charge you twice as much if you go bug him again."

"Hey, I gotta make sure he's doing it right."

Sam huffed with mild exasperation. "You don't believe anybody can do it right besides you."

"Yeah, Sam. You're probably right." And Dean smiled.

**The End**


End file.
